The men--half curiously, half jestingly, but all good-humoredly--strolled along beside the cart; some in advance, some a little in the rear of the homely catafalque.

But, whether from the narrowing of the road or some present sense of decorum, as the cart passed on, the company fell to the rear in couples, keeping step, and otherwise assuming the external show of a formal procession.

Jack Folinsbee, who had at the outset played a funeral march in dumb show upon an imaginary trombone, desisted, from a lack of sympathy and appreciation--not having, perhaps, your true humorist's capacity to be content with the enjoyment of his own fun.
The way led through Grizzly Canyon--by this time clothed in funereal drapery and shadows.

The redwoods, burying their moccasined feet in the red soil, stood in Indian file along the track, trailing an uncouth benediction from their bending boughs upon the passing bier.

A hare, surprised into helpless inactivity, sat upright and pulsating in the ferns by the roadside as the cortege went by.